


shiro-gane

by leov66



Series: until you break, until you yield [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Shiro Week 2017, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, shiro is mentally in a very bad place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 15:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12820680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leov66/pseuds/leov66
Summary: If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious. The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.(Albert Camus, The Myth of Sysiphus)even though Shiro's back, it's a neutral ending at best.





	shiro-gane

**Author's Note:**

> here's my late entry for shiro week 2017!!! it was a mash-up of prompts from the current and previous editions and due to school i also only managed to finish this monster today so apologies for not making the deadline! 
> 
> my tumblr is [@euphra-sie](https://euphra-sie.tumblr.com) in case anybody is interested.

Always keep going, no matter the cost. It’s the only thing he can do at this point. Keep going when everything collapses around him, keep breathing when there’s no air in his lungs. He’s a champion, a _survivor_ , he has to remind himself every step he takes when all he wants is the emptiness to swallow him whole. He finds no glory in feeling like that, and the times where he would have wanted it are long gone, anyway. If he could, he’d disappear, but life does not work like this. There is dust on his furniture (the bit he hasn’t destroyed or given away, he doesn’t need much these days) and blood all over the sink, and he either cleans for hours or watches the dirt build up.

 

The stars can’t console him anymore, all he does is stare at them, bathe in their cold light and think. There are so many stories they could tell about him but he doesn’t wish to hear a single one ever again. The past is already buried and it should remain so. Shivering, he feels the night’s wind blowing through him as if he wasn’t even there, and it feels right because the sky has taken enough of him already, it can have that, too. Constellations spin both in front of and behind his eyelids, infinities come and go where he stands, unmoving and passive. (He’s always freezing these days.)

 

The military has pressed itself into who he is, and before the sun even begins to rise he’s already up, tying his shoelaces (twice, or else he _can’t think because what if he trips they’re too loose, oh no he has to stop but he can’t stop and_ -) and ready to go for a run. There are barely any people where he lives now and he’s grateful for that because it brings back memories he’d rather forget. ( _“Holy shit, you’re so good at this, wish you taught me how to do it”, a cheeky smile,_ _“the name’s Matt, nice to meet ya._ ”)  He runs like he’s escaping and for once he’s not, runs for as long as he can and then more, runs until he feels like collapsing and past that point, to feel the burn in his legs and the needles in his lungs, keeping him more grounded than ever. The exhaustion after that is the only one he accepts, physical and not mental for once, and with each painful, hitched breath he’s a little bit _free_.

 

How strange beings they were, all forced together for the sake of the universe. How weird it all was, to be its defender, to have its destiny between their palms and the power to save it or crush it. (He wonders, sometimes, if they should have done the latter, just to see if the lions would abandon them or remain by their sides and watch galaxies turn to dust they all came from. It’s the only time where he truly thinks back.)

 

Sometimes, all shapes blur and it feels like nothing is real anymore. All he does is sit on the edge of the bed (the pillow’s too soft, he feels like he’s drowning) and watch the world go on when he’s back _there_. His past comes back and visions of _black and red and blue and green and yellow_ spin around him like flashes of light. So many regrets, so many mistakes they’ve all made. He was so different back then, he stood strong where now he lacks the strength to even _be_ , commanded and demanded where now he cannot bring himself to do anything. The colours are all too much and more often than not he wishes they had taken his eyesight along with the rest of him.

 

One day, when he’s buying groceries (it’s enough for him to last for a few months, he barely eats, anyway), he spontaneously purchases a notebook and a ballpoint pen. (Thanks to the Garrison’s money he received for saving the universe, he doesn’t have to worry much about straining his budget.) Back at the shack (he doesn’t dare call it a house because that sounds dangerously close to _home_ , and there’s no place where he could possibly feel at home now), he opens it and examines the pen carefully. He must’ve drifted off for a while in that moment, he knows because the sun’s already setting when he realizes he’s barely done anything. Shakily, he clicks it open (it’s a weird sound, he’s no longer used to it) and presses it to the first page. Suddenly, it’s like a weight was pressed against his chest, _does he even remember how to write?_ It’s been years since he last used his native language.

_No, that’s ridiculous._ Yet somehow, his hand trembles when he writes the first _kanji_ , then another.

 

_shiro-gane_

 

That’s _him_ , that’s his name, but that doesn’t hold any value anymore. It’s just two signs, two syllables, nothing more. He used to be so proud of himself as a child, when he managed to get it all right, his mother would kiss his cheek and smile at him. Now, he stares at what he’s written and wishes it meant something to him. The pen glides on too smoothly, it’s nothing like the brush he once had in his room and treasured like it was worth its weight in gold.

 

Carefully, he clicks it and places it on the opened notebook. Ghosts of the past threaten to reappear, nudging at his shoulders and back, swirling around him like ink, a thin, black cloud of memories and regrets. He was full of dreams, once. Now there are only nightmares and they’re more real than him.

 

The next day, he writes it again, in the second row, just below the first one.

 

_shiro-gane_

 

It’s a reminder, it’s something to hold on. He remembers the books he used to read when he was little, about ancient civilisations. _The Egyptians believed that as long as your name was written somewhere, your soul was immortal._ It’s an attempt to break out from the vicious cycle of nothing-everything-nothing-everything, it’s patching an ever-bleeding wound, but he can do that.

 

It’s easier to face the stars when you know something they don’t. They never see the sunrises kissing his face, the droplets of rain on the ground, only the pitch black of his stare when he can’t breathe anymore.

 

Sometimes, it’s almost as if things were going to be fine. He writes his name every day, and it’s enough. As _shiro-gane_ slowly begins to be something for him, he feels a little bit better. The morning run doesn’t feel quite as much as an escape, and when it’s a really good day, he manages to crack a smile at someone.

 

Sometimes, it’s terrible. Worse than that. Those days, he can’t even leave his bed, and when he does, it’s only for a short while. It’s that weird feeling of waiting for something, for someone, like the doorbell might ring in a second (he doesn’t own one), like Keith might come through the door with groceries in one hand and the dog’s leash in another, lean in to kiss his cheek and crack a stupid joke just to make him feel better. Of course, he never does. How could he, if Shiro saw the ship explode with his own eyes?

 

(He tries not to think about the red jacket, left in his bedroom the evening before the mission, the _I’ll take it when I’m back_ , tries not to remember the feeling of chapped lips against his own, it’s too much.)

 

Keith was neither the first nor the last to go in the war, but he was the one that truly mattered. He still remembers Lance’s choked sob when Red shut down. (“No, this must be a mistake,” he managed to say through the comm, “Shiro, tell me she’s wrong, _please_!”) The Blades went on and so did Voltron, but that was the moment Shiro began to crumble.

 

He had the jacket for a few months before ultimately losing it somewhere. The loss in itself isn’t painful at all, it’s the realization that it’s gone that comes after, when he’s got time to _think_ , that feels like an unnecessary punch to the stomach.

 

There are days where he writes it frantically, _shiro-gane_ , _shiro-gane_ , to try to hold on to that, but even that doesn’t work. Corners of the room reach out for him in a mockery of a playful gesture, swirls of purple and black licking at his feet, colder than ice, and fear paralyzes him all over again, and he can’t tell dreams and reality apart anymore. His hand, the bad one, burns scars onto the other arm, yearning to wrap itself around his throat, rebelling against his will. His mind is playing tricks on him, he knows that much, but it’s all too real to believe that.

 

Maybe he shouldn’t have left Earth in the first place. The universe would’ve had another saviour and he would’ve had Keith. It’s been enough time, but his eyes still catch on the ridiculous board. _It’s killing me when you’re away._ They were stupid, wasting so much time. And now it’s too late and Shiro’s the one left. _shiro-gane_ , _shiro-gane_ , for every year he’s spent without him.

 

He sees Lance and Allura in the old couple that owns the small store, the shadow of the old bickering, the adoration despite the time, the love pressed like a flower in-between books older than him. He remembers how much they’ve both grown together, remembers how they danced in the old ballroom once, when they thought everyone was asleep, remembers how much it hurt, just a few weeks after Keith, to see them taking comfort in each other.  He didn’t say anything, of course, he didn’t, but it still stung. On the other hand, it was enough to see that there were good things that came out of the godforsaken war.

 

Or so he thought, and so did they. Then came the reality, the realization that there’s no way that Earth could possibly accept an alien princess amongst the heroes of the universe.

 

(“You don’t understand, I can’t- can’t let that happen to you, Allura,” Lance said, holding her hand as if that could somehow soften his words. “You don’t know them, they’ll hurt you, you won’t-”

 

He’s silenced by Allura kissing him with everything she has, gives in by pulling her into his lap and tracing the curves of her waist. It’s desperate, it’s hopeless, but it’s _right_.

 

“Not now, Lance, I beg of you, let’s not think about it,” he hears Allura say before turning from the door.)

 

It hurt to watch them in the last few days they had, silent, always by each other’s side. As hurtful as it was, he was grateful, in a way, that he couldn’t prepare himself for mourning Keith. With Lance and Allura, they both knew what was going to happen, knew when it was going to happen. Coran might have been thinking about it, too, when their eyes met across the hall.

 

It still pains him to think about the other paladins. They were a bunch of kids forced to step in and save everyone, and when the job was done, they became strangers again. There were never any promises and one by one, the letters stopped coming. Even if he tried to find them, he wouldn’t know how. He doubts they’d want to see him again, anyway. Doubts if they’d even recognize him. If he was them, he’d move as far away as possible and never once look back, but he himself couldn’t bring himself to do it. Pretty dumb of him, but it’s not like he’s got any family to come back to.

 

 _shiro-gane_ , _shiro-gane_ , when he thinks about Lance and Allura’s final kiss, the way they tried to hold on to each other for as long as possible. The very same stars that watch him now bore witness to that cruelty. _shiro-gane_ , when he’s reminded of Pidge and Matt, the things they’ve been through to find each other and the bitterness of the victory that cut like a blade. At least they’re together with their mother, or so he inferred from the few letters they sent him. (He didn’t reply to a single one, couldn’t bring himself to do it.)

 

Then there’s Hunk, the optimist, the supportive, bubbly one, the same Hunk who swallowed his grief and barked at them through the comms, _we need to leave now, he bought us enough time to go_ (he was there with Shiro when it happened, he knew the risk, wasn’t as blinded as the other paladin), _Allura, open the wormhole before we all die here!_ Shiro underestimated him at first until the first crack in the team’s stability came. He got him through more anxiety attacks than he’s ready to admit, cooked him food (shitty and space-ish, but still) when he was at his worst, and he’s more than grateful for that. Hunk always talked about his mothers, about the little brother he’s excited to see again, after all of this is over, and Shiro loved to hear the stories about a warm house and fat cats in the little garden. He even tried to teach him _kanji_ , but eventually, they both gave up. It turned out _engineering and linguistics don’t mash for a reason, man, we can’t all be Da Vinci_ , and they had a good laugh about the whole situation.

 _shiro-gane_ , for every messy stroke Hunk attempted, and there were many.

There’s no way he’d know what was going on in their lives now, he’ll never see the dog Matt adopts from the shelter, the replacement for Bae-Bae that’s not enough but it’s _something_ , the hipster glasses he has to wear because it’s been years since that surgery at the Garrison. He’ll never know the lengths Hunk had to go, just after he returned, to make sure his family wouldn’t be evicted (of course the military didn’t give a fuck, they never did), the amount of money (the _reward_ , but it always seemed more like a bribe to keep them all quiet) that went into it, the time it took to repair a fraction of the relationship he had with his mothers before he left, the unknowing gaze of his brother’s that only ever saw Hunk’s face on blurry photographs. He’ll never know the letters Lance never stopped sending, the same ones Pidge kept in her desk, in the only drawer she kept locked from the rest of the family, the hours she spent mulling over every single one before ultimately responding. He’ll never know how hard it was for her, to watch him grieve over Allura yet take comfort in her own embrace and give all of whatever he still has left. It felt like a mutual agreement of sorts, a way to survive in a world that seemed to go on without them, but Shiro will never see that.

 

Some of them might’ve cut ties with each other, but it was Shiro that they keep writing letters to, every few months, sometimes from different addresses, but with the same handwriting. Maybe they were afraid that if they wouldn’t, he’d forget, but there’s no way that would happen. The envelopes feel different, too, Matt’s being the roughest, reminding him of the one they had in the military (considering he lived with Colleen, that wouldn’t be too far from the truth), Hunk’s the softest, sometimes with a little drawing on it (his brother’s, never his own, but that’s okay), Lance’s the messiest, Pidge’s the neatest. They write about different things, usually nothing tough, just a few updates here or there, usually joined by a „and what about _you_?” that he just skips over, ignoring the shame), but it’s heartwarming at best and guilt-tripping at worst. He never replies to anything, barely talks to people these days, and all he can do is hope they don’t think he’s killed himself.

 

Sometimes, he actively contemplates that, but on the days when he’s ready to do it, he doesn’t have the strength. When he technically _could_ , he can’t help the thought that he’s been through enough and it would mean he’s given up. If he’s lived through everything, is there anything that could truly break him? Keith did, but back then he didn’t have a choice but to go on, grief turned into vengeance, and if the rest of the team fought for the universe, he’d only murmur a weak ’for him’ in the cockpit for his lion to awaken.

 

 _shiro-gane_ , because he has to, even if he doesn’t remember his mother’s name or how old he is. _shiro-gane_ , because fate is the cruellest thing and it’s tested him enough. _shiro-gane_ , because he made the big mistake of falling in love with the stars and they could never love him back. _shiro-gane_ , because he never wanted to make history and when he did, he’d give anything to turn back time and never leave for the Kerberos mission. _shiro-gane_ , because he’s had so many names throughout the years that not a single one actually fits. _shiro-gane_ , because Takashi, Champion, the Black Paladin are nothing but a string of letters to him and only those shaky _kanji_ his father and his grandfather and great-grandfather used to write could be something to hold on to.

**Author's Note:**

> **comments and kudos keep writers motivated.**


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